


Laws of Permanence

by PixiePaint



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: F/M, Lots of Angst, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmate AU, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, danganronpa - Freeform, fuyuhiko backstory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:14:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21548185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PixiePaint/pseuds/PixiePaint
Summary: Cursed since birth, Fuyuhiko is among the small percentage of the population with soulmate marks. He's kept it hidden well his entire life, but a small mishap on the island leads it to be exposed. Fuyuhiko may never recover from this; however, he doesn't know if that's a good or bad thing.
Relationships: Kuzuryu Fuyuhiko/Original Character(s), Kuzuryu Fuyuhiko/Reader
Comments: 9
Kudos: 78





	Laws of Permanence

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this with fem reader (myself) in mind but everyone is welcome to read, i'll try to limit pronouns as much as possible!
> 
> also warning for a ton of angst, i can't help it-- fuyuhiko is just a lil emo boy

For all of the issues and turbulence the mafia lifestyle wrought upon Fuyuhiko, it granted him one thing: privacy. Secrecy was not far from security in his mind. Although well-known in certain circles, his true identity was divulged to few; it allowed him peace of conscience. There were few constant things in a yakuza’s life, and he would fight until the end to make sure protection of his seclusion was one of them. To be free in a society of congruity— that was his true, singular goal.

He was never without his full yakuza suit, prepared from the perfect tie to the shined shoes. From a young age, he’d been conditioned to treat every aspect of life as if it would end him. No matter the activity, time, or day, he would be ready. He had to be. Appearances could be the pit of despair in the end, and he would leave nothing up to chance. Maybe it was cliche to never be seen without a pinstriped suit, black tie, and crisp collared shirt, but Fuyuhiko was far beyond caring about banality. The Kuzuryu tradition was above all other factors. There was no  _ question  _ about his outfit; if he was meant to wear it, then he would. To think otherwise would be degrading not only of his heritage, but of his own life. He was a yakuza through and through.

If he was being completely emotionally honest with himself, his suit was another layer of security. Metaphorically, it provided a ‘shield’ of sorts around him; to be clothed in mafia attire was to have an aura of indestructibility. More importantly, it covered him in areas he didn’t want to be exposed. That included scars, but more primarily, it covered his soulmate mark.

...Soulmates. He was damned from even as a babe, fresh out of embryonic status and already marked by destiny. That probably would’ve been alright if he wasn’t the heir to a clan. If he was born into a normal family with plain jobs and even more plain commitments, a soulmate mark would be celebrated. They weren’t given to everyone; only a small percentage of the population were granted markings to find their soulmate. Babies born with blotches of shapes were considered to possess the ultimate luckiness. Fuyuhiko, however, was cursed, for in the yakuza business, a soulmate was simply equated to another weakness— a potential subject of incapacity. A soulmate meant a loose end. To have someone you were destined to be with, someone fated to be the dearest, closest person in your life— there was no question that they could be a target. To torture a leader, all that is required is the threat of harm to their most beloved. Weak. Fuyuhiko’s parents knew that if their enemies heard of the marking, there would immediately be threats and parties to find Fuyuhiko’s soulmate and use them as leverage. So—

So that little mark on Fuyuhiko’s wrist, the small swirl of a grayish star, was never seen by anyone except Fuyuhiko, his mother, his father, and the family doctor who delivered him. It was never exposed, always hidden behind a neat sleeve or pressed suit jacket. Affinity was weakness, and there was no room for weakness in a mafia business.

Initially, Fuyuhiko didn’t understand why so much confidentiality was required for a simple mark. Not even Peko was allowed to see it; that was absurdly unusual! He didn’t believe that one birthmark should garner so much attention. It was simply a little design on his wrist— didn’t seem all too harmful to him. It was just like a tattoo he didn’t have to buy. Why should he have to wear long sleeve shirts during the summer to hide something so minute? Although, as time progressed, and he gained years of experience, Fuyuhiko’s mindset slowly transitioned from childlike naivete to fledged acceptance and responsibility. His confusion shifted from why he had to cover it to  _ why he had the mark _ . A yakuza heir should have no weaknesses, especially not silly ones of fate and love. It was a heaping pile of baloney he’d been tossed into, and he desired no part in the foolish festivities.

Thus, he learned to cuff his shirts neatly, folded so that his wrists would never be revealed. He treated it as a transaction; a deal in which he had ended. If he couldn’t see the mark, and no one else could either, then there was no need to fret over its complications and implications. For the most part, he could ignore its existence.

Occasionally he would catch its soul-seeking gaze whenever he would shower or undress— and he would momentarily falter, pondering the fantastical possibilities of the mark’s other end— but there was no time nor purpose to searching further into the matter. He had much more important issues, and the concept of “a person he was destined to love” was an outright outrageous claim that he would prefer to not engage in. The less problems he introduced into his already busy life, the better.

Life was simple. He carried on. He never stopped to wonder. He lived his life as if  _ it  _ wasn’t even there.

But then he was reckless.

Of course, slicing your stomach in front your classmates as retribution was undeniably reckless no matter the lens, but he was more concerned with the following consequences. He hadn’t thought through it enough— he’d been too emotional— fuck. It was supposed to be a show of mercy, a plea that he was trying to fix things, but— he messed up. He’d been so caught up in his own sorrows and frustrations that he hadn’t calculated the most obvious outcome: the hospital. They’d rushed him there quickly, worried out of their minds, and when Fuyuhiko awoke, he was in… a hospital gown. With his arms almost sticking out. With most of his classmates surrounding him.

Fucking shitballs.

The first thought he had was a string of words far more vulgar than anything imaginable.

“Don’t— Stop fucking staring at me, you morons,” he shouted, his face morphing from confusion to anger in the split hesitation of a second.

“B-but—” Mikan softly stuttered, reaching out a bandaged hand to him—

“Fucking dumbasses, do I need to repeat myself? Give me some goddamned privacy unless you’d rather be in a fucking hospital bed too!” He shouted, lifting himself up in bed despite the scorching pain.

He wasn’t particularly upset at Mikan— and maybe he felt a twinge of guilt at her hurt expression— but if there was one matter he absolutely took no begrudging on, it was his soulmate mark. He was exposed, both physically and mentally, for it was a matter very personal to him. A matter he’d never discussed with  _ anyone _ . And to wake up in a room of strange classmates, surrounded while both of his arms were nearly out for the first time in a decade and a half, stuck in a position where he could barely move— yeah, he was upset.

Additionally, he had no qualms with getting what he wanted by whatever means possible. If striking intimidation and fear into people was the only way to present him with privacy, he’d do it. There was no question about it. Fuyuhiko had assimilated a culture where far worse tactics were used for far smaller issues. Shouting seemed like a mild choice to him. Effective, though, as Mikan flinched away and the remaining students in the room either fled or covered their eyes.

If he was raised to be a fearful leader, then why not use the accompanying talents to his advantage?

“Fuyuhiko, we just want you to get better,” Hajime started, his hands raised as if cornering a startled deer. Fuyuhiko was  _ not  _ going to be hunted.

He grimaced, baring his teeth and grunting as he sat up even further.

“Do you not have enough brain cells rattling around in that empty head to understand my fucking threat?”

Hajime sighed, nodding.

“Get well soon,” he mumbled, slipping through the door’s crack (but not before shooting a last, almost pitying glance Fuyuhiko’s way that made Fuyuhiko’s knuckles turn white).

Akane and Gundam, the last two in the room except for Mikan, quickly followed. Gundam looked as if he were going to say something, but ultimately decided against it. Good choice.

And then there were only Fuyuhiko and Mikan. He knew that nursing was her job— and he wasn’t an innately evil person, just forceful— so he lowered his tone before approaching her. He kept telling himself that she was only trying to help, that she hadn’t meant to reveal his arms, that she was a normal person not accustomed to booming violence and scare tactics. It wasn’t easy when his first instinct was to grab the syringe off the nearby table and—

But anyway. He calmed himself down.

“Mikan. Leave,” he breathed out with concentration to not curse her out.

“Your wou-wounds are opening again— plea-please let me stitch—”

“Out. Now.”

“O-okay,” she succumbed, hesitating before placing a small tray of chalky pills on his bedside table. She gave a small, meaningful bow, eyes flicking from him to the pills and back before she left the room as well.

He watched the door creak shut with finality, gaze impassive but strict. His brows relaxed into somewhat of a loose frown, readjusting his position to lay across the pillows beneath him. From his previous struggling to lean forward, he learned that there was no way he could sit fully straight yet, much less stand. He could only guess that it had been a day or two since his incident— not too long ago, but not too fresh.

On the spur of a moment’s decision, he quickly sat up again, just to spite that a yakuza’s weaknesses were nonexistent— but he immediately fell back onto the pillows with a pained groan. That certainly did not work out.

Thus, he could not move but a few inches in any direction without severe resistance, and that truly limited his routes of action. As a gangster, he was trained to search for all possible outcomes before reaching any decisions or biases. Tugging the blanket down to cover his arms could work, but it held only a fleeting victory and was easily disrupted. There were more hospital gowns in the clear cabinets near his bed, but they were all short-sleeved and he couldn’t reach them. Bandages and gauze were sitting on a tray next to his bed, if only he could stretch a hand out far enough to grab them. Other than that, he could only wait to escape the hospital room, and there was very little chance of him healing enough to walk before anyone else could walk in.

Fuyuhiko decided his best course of action was to use the bedsheets to wrap his arms for now, and attempt to get the bandages and gauze to the best of his ability. With his declining luck, Mikan would be back within the next few hours after the initial shock had worn off and her humanitarian nature prevailed. There was little time to pull off this heist. He quickly reassembled the blanket so that it looped around both arms and tied loosely underneath them, giving him ample room to move around without constraint. Then, he slowly shifted his legs inch by inch off to the side until they were nearly hanging off the bed. Using his feet as leverage, he pushed himself off of the bed at an angle so that his head could lay on the bedside table. So far, the plan was working. He was still laying horizontally, but now his feet were balanced between the bed and the ground, and his upper body was against the table. Now— if he could just reach— a little bit futher— fuck—

“Fuyuhiko?” You called, pushing open the door with a curious expression.

He fell to the floor.

“Ah! Fuyuhiko!” You yelled, scrambling to help him up. Your shoes skidded on the waxed floor and you nearly slipped while sprinting over to him. You tried to support his upper body to lift him, but he gritted his teeth and grunted in pain the moment his torso was off the ground.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—” You stumbled over your words, readjusting your hands.

Fuyuhiko may have been smaller than the average male, but that didn’t mean he was in any way easy to carry. You spread your hands underneath his legs and his arms, lifting him slightly so that he could lay flat between your arms, almost like a knight carrying a princess. Or-- not like that. That was a weird image.

He scowled nonetheless, but didn’t seem to be in any immediate pain. Slowly standing up with him carefully cradled, you transferred him back to the bed and propped him up on the pillows. You retracted your arms carefully, fretting over his body.

“Are you hurt? Should I get Mikan?”

“Just go,” he groaned, shifting his head to stare at the ceiling stoically.

“But you’re in pain. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“I want to be alone.”

“At least let me get you a cup of water or something—”   
  


“I want to be fucking alone, damn it! Are you fucking deaf, or are your gangly ears just not working?”

“My… ears…” you stuttered, then broke into a laugh, “I’ve never heard them called ‘gangly’ before, but I’ll take it.”

Fuyuhiko twisted his head back to stare at you at that, clear confusion on his face. You weren’t intimidated? Was his voice too weak from his condition? That must be it, because he couldn’t accept that a fucking high school student was standing up to him. He should be able to take down bosses and leaders twice his size and age, not bow down to people like  _ you _ .

You shook your head in silent laughter, readjusting his blankets while he was caught off guard. His confusion spared you a moment of time to continue fixing him up. You repositioned the pills and creams on the little stand, tucked in his sheets at the foot of the bed, and checked that all of his stitches and patches were in order.

“Okay, so—” you started placatingly. He jolted back into the present as soon as he heard your voice.

“The fuck! Get the fuck off me!” He shouted, limbs flying everywhere towards you (he managed to flail despite the grunts that left him as he flung them out, for surely it was hurting him to be so violent).

“I—”

“Get. Out.”

You took your hands away, raising your brows.

“Fine. Fine.”

He raised an arm weakly and pointed to the door, his face leaving no room for questions. You weren’t laughing anymore. You may not have been very scared of him, but you surely didn’t want to piss him off even further.

You left the room.

Fuyuhiko waited a moment before bringing his pointing hand back down, reassembling the blankets, then realizing— his arm had been bare again.

Fucking karinto on a stick.

//

It was three days before he was strong enough to leave his bed, and another two until he went back to his cottage. In that span, only half the class had came to visit him, likely still fearful of his last outburst. Now, however, he was conscious of his sheets and never let them slip. He wasn’t exactly thrilled to have visitors, but he tolerated it. He was secure and trusting enough in his makeshift cover to not snap at anyone.

In all of that time, you had not appeared. He could hardly ask around for your whereabouts, much less search for you, so he resigned to curiosity and dread. He’d like to believe that the universe wasn’t so cruel as to that on top of being held hostage on an abandoned island, forced to kill his classmates, and lose his best friend, someone saw his soulmate mark… everything just kept piling on top of him, and he found it incredibly difficult to grasp onto his remnants of hope. He was continuously falling down a sea of despair; that was the point of this island, wasn’t it? The salty waves never ceased lapping at his wounds. He couldn’t pause to stick a bandage on amidst the wetness; the injuries never healed, and eventually the stinging faded to a dull pricking sensation. He would continue onwards; he had to. That’s the only thing he knew how to do.

Nevertheless, it was another week until he showed to breakfast. Not that he was looking for you, but you weren’t there.

“Y/N used to sit next to M-Miss Sonia,” drooled Kazuichi, “But now she’s gone. Aaaah-I can be in the precious presence of the Princess! Just to touch the seat that’s graced by her glorious womanly scent-- I can’t believe my luck!”

“Oh?” Fuyuhiko replied, keeping his face as stoic as possible. He didn’t usually talk to Kazuichi-- or even acknowledge his existence, for that matter-- but he was just a bit intrigued.

“No one could ever compare to Miss Sonia’s hotness, ahhh--” Kazuichi driveled, his eyes dilated and not focused on reality at all.

“What were you saying before that, imbecil?” Fuyuhiko prompted, ticking his brow in annoyance. He really couldn’t deal with Kazuichi’s obsessive fanaticism. It was a bit concerning, but truly, he didn’t give a wink of importance to it. If it didn’t involve him, it wasn’t his issue. He didn’t like it, but he resigned that Kazuichi could sort out his own… internal problems.

“...Y/N hasn’t been coming to breakfast for about the past week?” Kazuichi responded, shrugging, “More Miss Sonia for me, though! Yum!”

Fuyuhiko could swear he saw stars in the middle of Kazuichi’s eyes. It was unsettling.

“Right. Why not?”

“Dunno, she seemed a bit down. But, hey, I only care about Miss Sonia! All other girls are dirt next to her.”

“...”

Fuyuhiko didn’t dignify that with a response. He dropped his spoon into his empty bowl of oats and carried it to the kitchen sink, leaving behind a starstruck Kazuichi (who didn’t heed Fuyuhiko’s abrupt leave at all).

He perceived his troubles as an issue with an abstract solution, no different than anything he’d previously encountered. It was more personal, and certainly more anxiety-inducing, but he could conquer it just as he’d conquered so many problems before. Life was a seemingly incomprehensible sequence of various trials that held no importance other than the right to be fought. To proceed to the next tribulation, he would first solve this one; whether peacefully or violently, it was simply another stone in the path of his journey. He should view it no differently… The complication was the fear of the unknown-- the anxiety that undulated before him with no clear choice. He could flee like an eagle and soar, or fight like a hyena and triumph. The laws of humanity were no different than the wilderness; they simply held more permanence.


End file.
